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By Jeffrey Earl Warren ’70 Jim Pop was dying. We all knew it. No one talked about it. The cancer (the other Big C) was taking its course and, despite his protestations to the contrary, he was not going to beat it. It was the spring of 1990, and he’d just turned 71. The question was, would he make it to Christmas? Jim Pop--also known as Jim Warren ’41, my father--was truly old school. He cared. He was a patriot. He was loyal. He believed in heroes and symbols. The only thing he was prouder of than being a Marine (if you don’t count being married to Maggie) was that he was a Golden Bear. Jim Pop loved his school. He was the definition of a "Loyal Old Blue." But there was a gap, a hole he’d been unable to fill. Silently it ate at him. Oh, he was an accomplished student--made the dean’s list and went on to Harvard Business School. He was a leader--president of his fraternity house, senior Hall of Fame; a member of all the prestigious clubs, Order of the Golden Bear, Skull & Keys, and Beta Beta, among others. And he had lettered five times: freshman basketball, the Ramblers (JV football), and three years in rugby, where he was also the captain. But rugby was considered a "minor sport," and those athletes received a Circle C--not the Holy Grail: a Big C (which was awarded only for varsity football, baseball, basketball, crew, tennis, and track). Despite all his accomplishments, Jim Pop’s heart was forever broken because he had failed to be awarded a varsity letter. It was never a question of toughness. On Jim Pop’s application for the Marines, rugby coaching legend Doc Hudson wrote: "He’d tackle a truck." But size, academics, or student orgs always took precedence over his desire to run out of that tunnel in Memorial Stadium with a leather helmet on his head. One night, after hearing Jim Pop lament that his two greatest regrets were that he didn’t receive a Purple Heart and that he hadn’t won his Big C, it hit me. Though over the years I had been tempted to graze his cheek with a thirty-six, I realized that was probably out of the question. At 71, it was too late for the Purple Heart. So I called my friend "Boomer," a great defensive back and rugger from the early ’50s. He had played rugby into his 50s and knew something about love of sports and love of Cal. "Who do I have to sleep with to get Jim Pop an honorary Big C?" I asked. "No one deserves a Big C more than Jimmy," he said. "Let me make a couple of calls." Eventually, Boomer reported back that a surprise honorary Big C letterman’s sweater would await Jim Pop at the Big C Society’s spring banquet at the Claremont Country Club. All I had to do was get Jim Pop there, without telling him why. I concocted a story that Cal was going to name a crew boat after our friend Gary Rogers ’63, who had done so much to endow the crew (that actually happened later). At first, Jim Pop hesitated--the trip would be too difficult, too tiring--but, being a loyal Blue, he felt he couldn’t let Gary down. As we drove to Berkeley, Jim Pop recalled how, a few years back, the Ricksen twins (tennis and basketball stars) had worked on getting Big C’s awarded to anyone who lettered three years in a minor sport. Jim Pop would have qualified. "But it never happened," he said despairingly. "I really thought I had a chance." I fought off tears as we neared the Claremont. The dining room was packed. Football head coach Bruce Snyder was awarded an honorary Big C. And then it happened.
The next morning, back home in St. Helena, Jim Pop hobbled into the kitchen with his sweater on. "I never slept," he told me. "I wore my sweater to bed and stayed up all night long. I can’t believe it. I’ve got a Big C." He wore that sweater every day of his life for the following six months. He made it to Christmas and wore it on Christmas day. January 13th he left us--the sweater next to his bed. |
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